A Lady’s Secret (17 page)

R
obin had to bully his way through the mob outside the Grey Sheep, but once inside his authoritative manner got the innkeeper’s attention.

“Monsieur, such horrors! Here we have a guest most foully stabbed. A fainting maidservant. A puking manservant. A full inn—”

Robin cut this off. “Who stabbed whom?”

The man threw his hands wide. “Monsieur, I have no idea! The man, he says nothing but curses in a foreign tongue. I think it is Italian. The other, he has disappeared. Some, they say it was a woman. This I cannot believe.”

He turned to snap frantic directions to chaotic servants while attempting answers to questions from alarmed guests.

Robin grabbed one servant. “Where’s the victim?”

The man jabbed a finger. “There.” He looked green.

Robin pushed into a ground-floor room where people gawked at a man on the ground. The stink of blood, shit, and vomit made Robin want to back out. When he saw where the man was clutching, where the blood came from, he understood why a manservant had puked. He really must be careful not to make Petra d’Averio too angry, but a kind of laughter was bubbling up.

No, she hadn’t gone willingly. Not willingly at all.

Shame the victim wasn’t Varzi, but the bleeding man was tall, muscular, and in his twenties. How, exactly, had she managed to land any sort of blow on a man like that?

A sallow-faced, middle-aged maid was standing in attendance, but not attempting any aid. If anything, she looked as if she were thinking sour, satisfied thoughts about the whole tribe of men.

Robin went on one knee by the man and summoned his weak Italian. “My poor man, how can I help you?”

Scrunched-up eyes opened a crack. “Kill the bitch,” he hissed.

“A
woman
did this to you?” he asked in innocent astonishment.

Presumably the string of words that came next was yet more abuse of women.

“Quietly, my friend, quietly. A doctor has been summoned. All will be well. But do you have friends here? May I find them for you?”

The man perhaps relaxed a little. Alas, the wound wasn’t as serious as it looked.

“Signor Varzi,” the man muttered. “My master. Signor Varzi.”

“He is staying here?”

“Yes.”

“The room number?”

But then a doctor rushed in—gray-haired this time—exclaiming in masculine horror. Robin had to retreat, shooed out with the rest. He saw the innkeeper knocking back a glass of brandy and went over. “Nasty business.”

The man shuddered. He snapped his fingers, and another glass of brandy was brought.

Robin sipped. “Where is signor Varzi?”

“Probably out booking his passage, monsieur.”

“Did he travel with just this man?”

“There is another, monsieur.”

“And a woman, I gather.”

“No, monsieur. Who she was, I cannot tell. A maid saw a woman in green running out just after the man started to yell. She said she carried a white cat.” He shrugged, hands spread again. “Perhaps she was a witch….”

Coquette. Why on earth had Petra taken the dog? But at least it sounded as if they had both been more or less all right when they’d escaped here. Very soon, however, there’d be a hue and cry for her.

Robin tried to plant a seed. “Perhaps signor Varzi attacked his servant, and the woman merely glimpsed it and fled in horror. Foreigners,” he added, in his most Gallic manner. “Italians are notoriously violent.”

The innkeeper nodded. “Indeed, indeed.”

Where would she run to? The Renard? Not when she’d been snatched from there. But she knew nowhere else in Boulogne.

“The guard has been summoned,” the innkeeper said, and as if triggered by his words, marching feet, then an order to halt, sounded in the street.

Robin slipped into the innyard to blend into a chattering group. He didn’t have to ask about the lady in green, for everyone was talking about her. Fortunately, the stories were garbled.

In blue. No, green. With a hat. No, a cap. With a cat. No, a rat. Beautiful. A hag. Frightened. Demented. Cackling with evil.

No one seemed sure which way she’d gone. One woman was convinced she’d turned into a crow and flown away. Robin left thinking,
Petra, you astonish me as always. But where the devil are you?

He entered the street, alert for other gossip, but then froze. At the door of the Mouton Gris, the innkeeper was talking with much gesticulation to a swarthy, middle-aged man. The plainly dressed man looked concerned and alarmed—just as he would be to find his servant cruelly assaulted.

As Petra had said, signor Varzi looked ordinary. Swarthy looks were often perceived as villainous, especially in England, where they were uncommon, but the man’s roundness and jowls suggested a prosperous merchant, and his anxiously spread hands seemed soft. He even had sorrowful bloodhound eyes.

He was a hound with razor-sharp teeth, however, and part of his teeth stood behind him—a lean, soberly dressed swordsman. Robin touched his own blade. That man had threatened Powick. No time for that—for now, at least. He had to find Petra before they did.

He set off back to the Renard in hope of news, but searched for her every step of the way. Instead, he saw a rag shop, heralded by bits of clothing hanging around the open door. An old woman sat knitting in the doorway, but she gave him a gap-toothed smile.

“Come in, come in, milord! I have fine garments here, fit enough for court, some of them!”

Robin didn’t bother to argue. He entered the dingy, smelly place, scanning for what Petra would need—a concealing cloak. The women of Boulogne seemed to wear shawls and cloaks most of the time, so it wouldn’t look out of the way.

He found a dark red one. It was stained down one side, but of quite good quality. It even had a hood. “How much?” he asked the woman. “Don’t try to overcharge, for I’ve no time to play games.”

She looked suitably affronted at this unsportsmanlike announcement, but named a price that was tolerable. Robin paid, bundled it up, and left.

He decided to risk some questions and asked two gossiping women if they’d seen his sister’s dog. “A silly little thing. All white fluff and wearing a fancy collar.”

No, they hadn’t, and they warned that the collar, at least, might not last long around here.

Then a shopkeeper overseeing trays of fruit remembered the dog with the huge, feathery ears. “Had a fancy collar, sir, so I knew she’d stolen it. The thief went that way.”

Robin passed over a coin and hurried on. “That way” was not toward the Renard.

Then a group of children told him about the pretty dog who’d escaped to play with them and had been snatched back by an angry woman. She’d asked directions to the Coq d’Or.

Of course. The one place other than the Renard that she knew. Robin stopped himself from running, but he hurried, telling himself that these stories indicated that Petra was whole and well, and Coquette, too. But both must be terrified.

The grand inn was busy, but seemed undisturbed by dramas elsewhere as yet. Robin avoided the main door, as Petra surely would have, and went to the innyard at the back. It was a frantic bustle of late arrivals, all anxious to secure passage for that night, so no one paid any attention to him. But he saw no sign of Petra or Coquette.

She’d be hiding, in shock over so grievously injuring a man. But wouldn’t Coquette’s misplaced devotion cause her to run to him, or at least bark? He circled the yard, poking his head into stables and carriage houses, ostler rooms and grain storage, but found no sign of them. Should he ask people? The soldiers would be here soon, so that would be dangerous.

Perhaps she wasn’t here, or perhaps she was inside. Might she have sought refuge with the French couple in their convoy? He was turning to enter the inn when he spotted a wooden gate in an arch. He opened it and found a small walled garden, presumably for the use of guests. At the moment it was deserted, but overlooked by the inn. He saw no one in the windows.

He scanned for hiding places. It contained a small lawn with a wide white path around it. Between path and wall were beds of shrubs and small trees, but how could he search them?

Was that a yip?

He walked along the path, listening, wishing his boots didn’t crunch so loudly on the gravel. A rustle? Over in that corner where a bay shrub nestled against a small tree? A branch fluttered. He went that way, calling a soft “Coquette.” The dog flew out of the shrub and raced to leap into his arms, trembling in every delicate bone. His hand touched something sticky. Blood. Murmuring to her, he told himself that her race to him meant she wasn’t badly hurt, but Varzi had another bill to pay.

“Where’s Petra, then, my sweet? Petra?” he called softly. Could the dog be here alone? Or was Petra injured?

Coquette was struggling to be put down, and he did so. She raced back to the motionless shrub. Robin followed and slipped behind it to find Petra huddled down in the corner of the wall, hugging herself, eyes huge, a smear of blood down one cheek. For a moment she shrank back as if she didn’t recognize him, but then she scrambled up and she, too, threw herself into his arms.

Robin held her close. “What an excess of amusement you’re providing me, my dear. Can we please stop now?”

She burst into a mix of laughter and tears, fortunately smothering them in his coat. He turned so he could see through the leaves and watch for any approach.

When she’d calmed a bit, he touched her face. “Did Varzi hurt you?”

She shook her head, but her eyes were swollen and red, and skin blotchy from being pressed against his coat. He kissed her forehead gently, a wave of disconcerting tenderness rushing through him. It was far removed from excitement or lust—and thus much more dangerous.

Petra leaned against Robin, wonderful Cock Robin, in danger of bursting into tears again for many reasons. She was so glad to see him, so distressed by what had happened, what she’d done. So terrified of consequences.

“Did I kill that man?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Thank God, thank God.” She looked up at him as if he was her judge. “I had to do it. I had to escape!”

“Assuredly. Calmly, calmly…. Is that his blood?” he asked, touching her face again.

“Oh!” She looked at her right hand, which had been so very bloody. “I wiped it as best I could….”

“Shades of Macbeth,” he said, and spat into his handkerchief to wipe at her face. “There, the damned spot is out.” Then he kissed her. It was gentle and tender and probably intended only to be comforting, but it poured life into her in a painful, burning torrent. She pressed closer and hooked her hand behind his head to make the kiss deeper, to drink down more of him.

To live.

He held her tight and his mouth responded, but she sensed resistance.
Of course,
she thought, going still. He understood now the danger she represented. His men and his dog were all injured because of her.

She pushed away. “I’m sorry….”

“No more apologies. But Coquette is decidedly de trop.”

The little dog was dancing around their feet, demanding his attention. He picked her up to gently explore the wound.

“That’s not her blood. My hand. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for saying I’m sorry.” She began to wipe away tears but smelled the blood on her hand. “Are Fontaine and Powick all right?”

“I believe they’ll survive, but you might have broken Fontaine’s nose.”

“I’m sorry. But he would not let me go!”

He gently tucked the tiny dog into his pocket. “The question is, Why did you want to?”

“I should have let them castrate Powick?” she demanded.

He stared at her. “Varzi really would have done that?”

“Of course. Then move on to other bits.”

“’Struth.”

“You see what risk I’ve put you in. I never should have—”

He captured her waving hands. “All will be well now.”

“Oh,
you
!”

“Yes, me.” He pressed her hands, smiling, but then stepped away, looking around the ground. “Ah, there it is.” He scooped up a bundle from the ground and shook out a dark red cloak. “Behold my having forethought for once.” He swirled it around her and fastened the tie at her throat. “It gapes. Can you wear your petticoat on the outside?”

His light manner that had irritated her so much now soothed her like balm. “Yes, yes, of course.” She turned her back and untied the cream garment, then tied it on again on top. When she turned back, he said, “Better.”

He unpinned her forgotten hat, took out the cameo, and gave it to her. “Tuck that away somewhere and pull up the hood of the cloak.” He stepped back to look her over. “That’ll do, I think. Let us depart this leafy glade.”

Petra hesitated, but then gathered her courage and brushed through the shrubs to the path. He followed, saying, “Coquette’s likely to give us away.” He moved the dog under his coat, holding her in place with his arm and saying, “Hush.” He pulled a wry face. “Being court trained, occasionally she obeys that.”

“She did for me. It probably saved her life.”

“Truly Varzi has many debts to pay.” He offered her his other arm, and they strolled toward the gate.

She could only pray Robin never encountered Varzi at all. She glanced nervously at the inn windows. “I suppose if anyone sees us from the windows they’ll assume a tryst.”

“Of course. How did Coquette get injured?”

It came so suddenly it felt like an attack. “I’m sorry about that.”

“Was it your fault, then?”

“This is
all
my fault,” she said fiercely. “Powick, Fontaine…Coquette yapped at Varzi, so he hit her off with his cane.”

“Haven’t you sense enough to know that you’re pure decoration?”

“What?” Petra gasped.

“Coquette, not you.”

“She’s a little warrior. She tried to bite the other one. My guard. He was so startled, I managed to land a blow.”

“Diamonds in your next collar, my valiant butterfly, but of your kindness don’t take such risks.”

Petra almost felt he was addressing her, too. Another burden to be protected, stroked, and tolerated because Robin Bonchurch was unable to shrug off inconvenient responsibilities.